Duty Disguised
by The Mystic Doctor
Summary: It was his firm and long-held belief that no butler would ever be as devoted to his mistress as he was to Madam Red. He owed the generous woman so much, after all. But Grell had a feeling that no other butler would have ended up in this situation, either… Butler/human Grell only!
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first long story in quite a while. I usually don't write anything but one-shots, which are what I feel I am best at. But once I started writing this, I realized it would be **_**way**_** too long to be a one-shot.**

**If you're unfamiliar with the way I write Grell, please feel free to check out "Unfit to Serve", a collection of one-shots featuring him in butler form only (in which he is completely human and not death god at all), which I try to update every so often. It will be on hiatus for a while though, as I work on this story.**

/

It came as all the others did – carefully wrapped up and secured within layers of brown paper, and tied with the same rough twine, done up in a neat knot at the top. Grell followed it with his eyes as it was lifted down from the shelf where it sat, and carried to where he stood waiting at the front of the room. Mrs. Tillman's place was a small and cozy little establishment, well-kept despite the rolls of bright fabric scattered on every flat surface, and the woman herself very kind, but a particular type of paranoia always seemed to overtake him whenever he came for the reason he had today. He almost wished he could view the item for a moment, just to be certain that it was indeed what the madam had ordered. But how silly he was, for when had it not been?

"Thank you for your few minutes' patience, Mr. Sutcliffe," the aforementioned seamstress spoke, smiling, and passed the parcel into the butler's hands. The package, like most of the others before, was quite hefty. As he had come to learn, Madam Red was very much fond of requesting a full dress each time she placed an order, underskirts and all.

"Oh, not at all…the pleasure is mine to stop in, as it always is," responded Grell, shifting his burden about in his arms, and subsequently emitting a grunt.

"Will you require any assistance, sir?" Mrs. Tillman asked as she observed him. It was the same question he heard every time.

"…I am most grateful for your concern, Ma'am, but please be assured that I will be all right…I have only to walk outside to the carriage."

The middle-aged woman hesitated, but eventually nodded, though moving to open the door for the heavy-laden servant nonetheless. "Very well. Please send my greetings to Ms. Durless, and let me know if I may be of further help."

At last obtaining a firm hold around the massive bundle, Grell nodded in return, his face partly concealed by one corner. It would have been more polite to bow, but lowering the parcel would only warrant more grappling with it when he went to pick it up again. "Of course. Thank you very much for everything, Ma'am. Good day!"

And thus, precariously stepping through the door so generously held open, he made his way back onto the streets of West End London.

/

_THUMP._

Grell winced as the object causing his arms so much grief slipped from his grasp and hit the hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway. Ah, and how very close he had come to making it all the way to the madam's bedchamber without this very thing occurring! Well, the fact that he had managed to haul it up the stairs without any sort of injury must certainly be commendable anyhow, he reminded himself.

The dull yet very audible sound had served as an abrupt signal to the lady of the house, and appearing in the hall, she briskly made her way over to where Grell was crouching and preparing to lift the dropped brown-paper package. The servant raised his gaze upon hearing the approaching footsteps. "My lady – your new dress is at last here! Please allow me just one moment and I will have it in your room!"

Madam Red sighed, watching him rise to his feet as he simultaneous struggled with the bundle. "Thank you. Just take care not to hurt yourself, please." Moving past him, she directed her steps toward the door of her bedroom, and with arms full, Grell followed.

Once they were inside, she promptly turned to face him, and it was only then that her anticipation over the completed outfit finally revealed itself. With glowing eyes and a broad, eager smile, she extended her hands toward the parcel which Grell, exhaling in relief, was laying to rest on the bed. "Well then, I appreciate your assistance. You are now dismissed."

"My lady – pardon me, but will you be – ah, that is –" fumbled Grell, attempting to put to words the question which he could not find it in himself to resist asking, however indirectly.

For Madam Red however, his inquiry was easily guessed. "Yes, I will wear it for a bit today, so you will be able to see it and give your criticism."

"Oh, Madam, I don't expect that any criticism will be necessary!" the flushing butler exclaimed, raising his hands. "Indeed, I cannot recall a single time when you have worn anything that did not befit you! I am merely…I suppose, well…"

"You are curious," Madam Red stated, concluding the thought he was so poor at hiding. _Perhaps overly so._ But, she only continued to smile. "I know. You always are. Now –" she gestured to the door. "Go on, but do not linger too far, in case I need you, though it is not likely."

"Of course, my lady", Grell replied, and performed his usual, ungainly bow. "Do not hesitate to call if you must." These words were admittedly insincere however, as the thought of helping Madam Red to dress always caused great anxiety. He was no maidservant, which both of them knew, and he _still_ did not know why she did not employ at least one to help in such daily situations as this. But somehow, Madam Red had grown adept at doing herself up each day, hooks, ties and all the rest. There had only been a few instances when his assistance had been required, each of which involved catching an unwanted glimpse of and/or touching her undergarments, and which had, each time, sent Grell's head reeling and left him a tomato-red, trembling mess.

After closing her door, he drifted down into the drawing room, where he wandered about for several minutes to see if anything needed tidying up. But before much time had passed, a cry pierced the air.

"UGH! No, this cannot be!"

He flinched at the shrill, unexpected sound, but nonetheless found himself nervously rushing back down the hallway. His gloved fingers brushed the doorknob, but remembering the etiquette of a servant, he pulled them away at the last second. Taking a deep breath and blinking away sudden mental images of petticoats and chemises, he called out, "My lady, is everything all right?"

Her voice again sounded, irritation leaking from it. "Come in at once!"

Meekly and with lowered eyes, he entered the room.

"It's all right, Grell, you can look up."

He did. There she stood in her new attire, but what the source of her displeasure was, he could not for the life of him tell. The outer skirt was beige in color, one side drawn up a bit above the knee and held in place by maroon velvet pieces made to resemble a flower. The underskirt, revealed at the bottom where the outer one was drawn up, was a smoky green with wide, maroon stripes. The high-collared bodice was also beige, a thick maroon stripe running vertically down each side of the center, another, smaller flower situated at the left shoulder. Each sleeve had a maroon band encircling the cuff, and each band was yet again accented by a velvet flower. The dress was just as, if not more so, splendid as Grell had envisioned, and he found it to even further enhance his madam's overall loveliness. But why were her arms crossed over her front?

He was granted only a moment to stand and behold her, half in rapt admiration and half in perplexity, before she rose her voice, impatient. "There's been a mistake. Heaven only knows how it came about, but I have _never_ heard of a dressmaker making such a grave error before." Her speech was penetrated by her scowl.

Cautiously, he spoke. "And – and what would that be, Madam?"

"Can you not see?!" came the exclamation. At his flummoxed look, she rolled her eyes. "It's this bodice. It is not the right size."

Hearing this, Grell was at last able to perceive the problem. Her hands were gripping the front edges of the jacket-style bodice, holding it closed around her. She was without a doubt correct; it clearly did not fit her and appeared to be made for someone with a somewhat larger frame.

"Oh, my lady!" he cried out, hand thrown up to his forehead in dismay. "This is a calamity! How could they have conceived of wronging you so?! The ultimate masterpiece it would have been, if not for this faux pas!" How could anyone disgrace his worthy madam like this?

"Indeed," she sniffed, clutching the bodice tighter. "I would never in a thousand years have imagined such inferior service from Tillman's. I can only wonder which one of her girls it was who became so careless. I am sure there is no true spite involved – merely distraction – but that does not make this any less excusable."

Upon hearing this, the accusatory thoughts which burned in Grell's head were, in an instant, snuffed out as the flame of a candle. Whoever was behind this blunder now dined at the same table of Poor Service that he did…that table at which he seemed forever fated to carve and serve the meat of Failure. If anything, he should be preparing the unknown seamstress-in-training a seat.

He only nodded in response. Madam Red, after briefly casting her eyes at the brown paper wrapping that lay discarded on the bed, again spoke. "You can expect me to accompany you to town tomorrow, for I will have certain words made ready for Mrs. Tillman. Let us hope that she will just as soon have a refund ready for me. Now, please excuse me."

"Yes, Madam." With a final covert glance at the dress, he turned to go, shaking his head. "What a pity that it must go to waste, if I may say so…it is of a marvelous design, if nothing else…" At seeing the sour look she still wore, he trailed off, thinking that perhaps it was best if he took his leave quietly.

Ah, what a dark day tomorrow would be for that kind dressmaker and her helpers.

/

It was something which struck him as a bit unusual. Here it was, a new day, well into the morning, and Madam Red had not yet issued the command – the command that he drive her down to the shop, where she would doubtlessly cause a great uproar in demanding her refund. He couldn't believe that she would not make the trip at some point today, but currently, she only remained inside her study, and the oddness of it made him just the slightest bit apprehensive.

Despite her not coming out however, he needed to go in, though for an entirely unrelated reason. Armed with feather duster, rag, and furniture polish, the wary butler approached the door, and gingerly knocked.

After a moment of silence, her calm reply was heard. "Yes."

Holding his supplies against him in one arm, he used the hand of the other to slowly open the door. Advancing inside a step, he bowed, causing the duster to slip away from him and softly hit the ground. Grell tried not to let this distract him as he cleared his throat and said, "Please excuse the interruption, my lady, but I believe I am scheduled to perform a thorough dusting of the study this morning?"

Leaning back in the chair behind the desk, she turned her head away from the nearby window and stared at him. The absent look in her deep red eyes was difficult to miss. Startled somewhat, Grell could only wonder if he had unwittingly disrupted some profound reverie. But then, she shook her head as if to clear it, and regarded him with her ordinary, steady gaze. "That's right. I must have forgotten about that. Please, do begin. Pay no mind to me; I am not yet through reviewing the mail."

Having said this, she straightened in her chair, and reached for one of several folded papers lying before her. Grell retrieved the feather duster and set down the objects he carried, but found himself reluctant to proceed. It was not often that Madam Red stayed nearby while he was cleaning or doing most other menial chores. Her presence, and more significantly the scrutiny she was likely to observe him with, only heightened his already incessant self-consciousness.

But strangely, she didn't seem as though she intended to watch him all that much. She didn't even seem that focused on the mail, Grell noticed after a few minutes as he carefully wiped down the surface of a small table. Rather, her eyes had restlessly strayed back to the window, her figure again reclining in the white armchair. Knowing it was not his place, he did not press her about this unusual behavior, but continued with the task at hand, making sure to keep out of her line of sight.

"Grell…did I ever tell you about my grandmother?"

Surprised, he turned to face her. "Why, no…I don't believe you have, Madam."

"She wants me to come and visit her."

"Is that…so?" He cast a glance down at the letters and newsjournals that lay in a heap on the desk.

"Yes." Still without looking at him, she continued. "She lives just outside of Castle Camps. It's a small town – a village, you might say – quite a distance north of here. When I was a child, we would visit her often. The excitement and sheer size of London was too much for her, she always said, and I don't recall her ever traveling down to see us in our home. I have not received word from her in – oh, quite some time, until today." She paused. "According to her letter, she is preparing to at last hand down the many family heirlooms and other treasures in her possession. She asks that I come to claim what she has for me."

"Oh?" Grell asked, already imagining in dread the journey that would surely be in order, and the many preparations it would entail.

"Yes. Otherwise, she says, she may decide to sell them to charity, either now or when she eventually passes. In all truth, I think she simply wishes to see how many of us will come to see her."

Grell nodded, in the back of his mind trying to remember where the madam's traveling bags were kept.

"However," and here she heaved a great sigh, at last pulling her eyes away from the view of the outdoors and once more resting them upon him. "there is a problem. There is one item that I would be overjoyed to accept from her – really, I can't think of who else is left but me to take it – but I know she does not plan to offer it to me. She has made it clear that it is for one person alone – and that is Rachel."

Hearing and swiftly recognizing the name not often uttered, Grell brought his remote ponderings to an abrupt halt, and stood uncertainly, not quite knowing how to respond or react. When mentioning her dear, deceased sister, Madam Red would at times speak with fondness and at other times with grief, and so Grell had learned to take great care whenever the name was brought up. It wasn't always easy to determine when words of comfort were called for, or when keeping quiet was the better alternative. In this case, he chose to simply nod.

"So, do you see how this is a dilemma?" the lady went on, hardly registering the bob of his head. "Rachel, for obvious reasons, cannot go to claim anything. But my grandmother – who is aged and with her mind half gone – believes that she still lives!"

At this, Grell could not conceal a bit of astonishment. "Does she really? But, my lady, has she not been told? Or supplied with some sort of evidence?"

"Of course she has. But she still will not believe any of it. In a way, I can almost understand; after all, she loved Rachel more than anyone." If Grell was not mistaken, the slightest trace of bitterness had slipped into that statement. He watched with unintended interest as Madam Red frowned to herself. "This object I speak of, by the way, is a ring – one which we always saw her wear, and which Rachel and I both admired. I still remember it – it is a silver band crowned with the most lovely garnet stone. Sometimes we would speak among ourselves about which one of us might inherit it someday. But we were so young, and the future seemed so far off then." She sighed, and held a hand to her head as though it ached. "If Rachel doesn't come for it, that ring will surely be lost to me forever. And – and I just can't let that happen!"

Try as he might, Grell could not find it within himself to sympathize with her. He had grown up in very different circumstances, after all, and had always kept himself from hoping for most things – and especially material things. Soothingly, he asked, "Is there any way, Madam, that you may be able to convince your grandmother of the truth?"

She shook her head, and shifted forward to rest her chin within her palm, elbow against the desk. "It's not likely, but all I can think to do is try anyway. I've always wished for that ring; it would go so wonderfully with many of my clothes. I must try my hardest to bring it home with me."

Grell scratched his head, attempting to mask his uneasiness at the thought of his lady resorting to stealing this ring, an underhanded act indeed. _No, Madam would never do something so insidious! A contemptible person I am, for considering such a thing…_

"I do hope you will be able to speak some sense into her, Madam," he managed to supply. And, doing all he could to suppress thoughts of his dear Lady Red turned thief, added, "Do not hesitate to let me know if I can help in any way."

A few moments' stillness passed, and upon seeing her fall silent once more, Grell slowly resumed his work. But then – several minutes later, midway through his best attempt to delicately dust a picture frame – it happened.

With extreme suddenness, Madam Red jumped from her seat to a standing position, the movement so rapid and her expression engraved with such extraordinary shock that Grell, leaping backward and slamming into the wall in fright, almost believed her to be possessed. Wide staring eyes turned toward him, and he cringed through the newly-born throbbing in his head. What had he done?! He had done something, hadn't he?! Either that or a mouse had run across her foot, but he was only ever inclined to assume the worst.

"MyladyI'msosorryformyactionsIbegyourforgivenesspleasepardonmydespicableselfIdonotmeanto-"

"No, Grell, no! Listen! Stop that bowing; stand up and _listen_! Yes, that's better. Now – I've just figured it all out – you are the answer – the solution!"

The overwhelmed butler did not – could not – comprehend. He still felt as though he had literally jumped out of his skin, and his boggled mind remained partially convinced that he was at fault somehow.

In unwavering excitement, Madam Red continued. "Grell, listen to me. I need you to unpack that dress from the other day – the one that doesn't fit me. Instead of returning it, I want you to try it on. If it fits, you can accompany me to Castle Camps posing as Rachel, and my grandmother will most certainly hand over the ring!"

He heard the words…but for some reason they were having an awfully difficult time being absorbed into his brain. He nearly felt outside of himself, as if he was listening to her proclaim such a silly notion to someone else, a notion that made no sense at all. When the mental fog finally began to dissipate, he noticed her watching him intently, and silently repeated to himself the words he recalled hearing. It was like waking from a dream…only to discover in terror that the dream was real.

It sunk in, what she wanted him to do. He gaped, his face contorting into ten times more alarm than before. "Madam…you…you can't be…that's…it's so…so…" Despite all of the adjectives running through his head, it was impossible to choose just one to complete the thought.

"It's all right; I truly believe that it can work! Didn't I say that my grandmother's mind is half gone? The last time I saw her, there were many things she mistook for other things, or that she had to be reminded of in order to remember. I know that it's a sad thing, but if we tell her that you are Rachel…"

No longer mindful of responding respectfully, Grell stumbled back a step, bumping again into the wall, though this time with much less violence. "No…I can't! No – it's preposterous! Except for those who are hindered by physical blindness, there is not one living, breathing human being on this earth who would be fooled – not even your grandmother. And besides – I would look – no. I am sorry, but…"

…_but it's the most harebrained scheme to ever come into existence!_

"Grell, you can do it! I know you can! All you need is to be disguised properly! We can pin your hair up – oh, thank goodness for your hair! I can loan you a hat, as well. Oh, but you should try the bodice on first. I think you're about the right size for it. Stay with me, now – don't go and faint!"

He was trying with all his might to keep from doing just that. The more her fantastical visions flowed forth, the more his panic escalated. He shook his head to show that he heard, but made no move to leave the room.

"Grell." Her enthusiasm simmered a bit, and her voice became gentle. She raised an arm and reached toward him, resting it lightly on his shoulder. "I don't want you to hate me. But if we do this and do it right, no one but you and I will ever know about it. And, we don't even need to stay for more than a day. Just one day, with only the three of us and perhaps a servant or two in the house. I know I can't make you into a perfect woman, either…we will probably have to compromise on several aspects of this. Perhaps we can find a way for you to hide your face, if it would make you feel better."

It was no use; her assurances didn't seem to have any effect. Perhaps it was necessary to approach him from a different angle. "…if I must, I will give you something in return for your help. A reward of some kind. What about a bonus in your pay? I did hear you mumbling the other day about needing a new shirt. Not good enough? Well, how much money will it take? What else could you possibly want?"

Poor, flustered Grell did not know how to respond. The concept of a reward to carry out this unappealing plot did not seem to make any difference. Her next offer, however, captured his attention:

"…well, what would you say to a day off?"

Never was that topic so loosely discussed. Days off were extremely few in number for Madam Red's lone servant, and those were official holidays only. The thought of any old day freely granted to him was definitely tempting, but was even that worth what she was asking him to do?

She noticed right away the subtle glimmer in his olive eyes…but still no answer came. She had brought him to the point where he couldn't make up his mind, at least…

"…all right!" she exclaimed, the desperation plain to see. "Two days off to do as you please! We can even write a contract, if you wish – but I cannot give you anything more! Would you consider that? I cannot do this without you!"

Perhaps it was that final plea – one which did much to elevate his sense of being needed – combined with the undeniable allure of two days all to himself, that did it. He could not bear to know that he would willingly let her down and cause her sorrow, even if he had, unspeakable as it was, considered it at first. He drew a deep breath.

"My lady, your offer is appreciated…and accepted. I am at your disposal."

To say that she was thrilled was an understatement. So much genuine happiness, he had never before witnessed from her. "Do you mean it?! Grell – you cannot imagine how much this means to me!"

One final question, however, remained to be asked – one that expressed the abiding fear which Grell could not manage to rid himself of. His voice quaking badly, he asked, "Aren't you afraid, though, Madam, that I will…make the most abhorrent mistakes, and bring everything to ruin? What if…what if something happens, and someone sees me for what I am?"

She was quiet, but after a moment looked him fixedly in the eye, her authoritative demeanor restored. "If something happens…well, I will be there, and I will have to handle it. But this being my grandmother, the chances are virtually none. Do not work yourself up over such thoughts; only concentrate on the things I will teach you."

Swallowing down the boulder in his throat, he nodded, and pretended to be encouraged, as though he was not about to embark on the most foolhardy journey of his life.

"…yes, my lady."

/

**Historical note: In the Victorian age, dresses (according to my research) were made of not one but of at least two separate pieces, the bodice and the skirt(s). In this way women could mix and match their clothing and save money. The dress in this story is based off of a picture of a Victorian-age dress I found online. If anyone would like to see it, let me know and I'll post the link on my profile page.**

**I am about to torture Grell far more than he deserves, which I admittedly feel kind of bad about, but hey, it does make a good story. I am hoping that this will turn out to be as epic as I want it to. Sorry Grell, you're just too loyal to Madam Red and tempted by days off to say no.**

**Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was really quite a magnificent dress – his opinion of that had not changed in the least – but it just didn't suit him the way it did Madam Red, Grell thought with some sarcasm. By a sadistic turn of fate, the accursed bodice had fit him, somewhat snugly actually, and effectively dashing his last hopes of evading the plan. He stood now in his bedroom, facing the wall mirror but trying not to look too long at the humiliating sight within.

As for many of the details, certain decisions had already been made. He was to wear one of the madam's wide-brimmed hats whenever possible, and to pull it down slightly in order to conceal part of his face. When this was not convenient, he was to instead use a fan or a handkerchief. It was also deemed that his shoes would be easily identifiable as a man's, and although not much could be done about this, Madam Red thought it best to undo the normal black laces and replace them with red ribbons. His hair was to be pinned up in a tight knot, and despite the fact that his was not even a shade close to the radiant gold that Rachel's had been, Madam Red was convinced that it would make no difference to her aged and forgetful grandmother.

And then, there was the matter of his voice – a dead giveaway to his true gender, should he utter a word. Madam Red, however, had had the brilliant idea that he should pretend to be somewhat ill and unable to speak – all he needed to do was communicate with nods or shakes of his head.

He was still waiting to awaken from this senseless dream.

"Grell, please turn around." He obeyed, the skirt swirling with him, a quite foreign sensation. With a critical gaze, Madam Red examined him up and down. "I don't know…I still think you don't appear thin enough. If only you would try the corset…" Grell immediately blanched, much like he had a short while ago when she had initially made the suggestion, and retreated a step, shivering in trepidation. "…but I know you will not go that far. Hmm…"

Grell pushed up his spectacles, an item which he was (very gratefully) permitted to keep. "Madam," he asked, timidly, "with all due respect, is the…bustle* truly necessary to the dress?" The concept of the device seemed so silly, now that he was wearing one.

The look she gave him would have been enough of an answer. "Of course it is, unless you want to look like a woman from the lower classes, with no sense of style. If you refuse the corset, you absolutely cannot do so with the bustle. Now, there must be another way to make you look a bit slimmer…and to more effectively hold up your 'chest'." She gestured to his torso, where, inside the dress, were stuffed quite a number of his own rolled-up (and clean) socks. This aspect of the facade was likely the most awkward part of all, and Grell was trying desperately to ignore it. "I wonder," she continued slowly, still scrutinizing him, "if a waistband of some kind would help. A wide ribbon, perhaps? Yes, let's try it. Wait right here; I'll be back shortly."

She returned with a maroon ribbon, and insisted on fastening it around his waist herself, cinching it just tight enough so that he could still breathe, although just barely. He adjusted the socks pressed against his front, and looked up to see her smiling and nodding in satisfaction. "That's better. Not ideal, of course, but better."

"My lady…please do pardon me, but don't you think that all this is…um…disrespectful to your sister's memory? Would she not be offended by an ignoble, unrefined creature such as myself… and not even a female…calling himself by her name?"

She paused, clearly unprepared for this profound question, which she appeared to not even have considered until now. "…you may think so, but I believe Rachel would understand. She would not want to see the ring that she also loved given to someone outside the family, I am sure. Anyway, now that your appearance is more or less decided upon, it is time to run a basic course in proper female etiquette. Start by simply walking. Don't rush; take small steps. Come on, now…that's it…"

Inevitably, he stumbled.

And while he couldn't speak for his lady, he could not help but take it as a bad omen.

/

Omen or not, the morning of departure finally dawned, and all too soon. Grell, who had acquired little sleep the night prior, did not feel any more like a woman than he ever would, but he couldn't say he hadn't learned anything. Even after the countless hours of rehearsal however, applying his newfound knowledge would still take much focus.

The plan for traveling to Edythe Harvey's home, some sixty miles north of London, ran thus: they would board a train out of the city and up to the town of Saffron Walden, Grell in his own clothes. There, they would stop at an inn, where he would don his disguise, and a carriage would be hired which would then drive them the remaining ten or so miles to the village of Castle Camps. A single night would be spent in the home of their elderly hostess, and by mid-afternoon tomorrow, the cunning duo would be well on the return trip home, stopping at the inn once more for Grell to transform back into his un-womanly self.

Staring at the luggage that sat waiting in the foyer, and with the reality of his part in the scheme sinking even deeper in, the overstrung butler almost considered asking Madam Red to kindly call it all off. But then he remembered the contract which had been written up and signed by them both, and which made escape impossible. He _was _the one who had said that letting the dress go to waste would be a shame, after all, a fact which she had not failed to recently throw back in his face.

In all honesty, Grell didn't remember too much about the journey, so preoccupied was he with innumerable worries. After what was undoubtedly a much too short train ride to Saffron Walden, lady and servant arrived at a fairly respectable (and thankfully, nearly empty) inn, where he squeezed himself into his costume and allowed Madam Red to artfully bunch and arrange the back of the blue underskirt in what was supposedly a stylish fashion. After his brunette mane had been combed and twisted up into a neat bun and the other odds and ends were accounted for, they at last exited the building (Grell holding on to Madam Red's arm while descending the staircase) and boarded a coach for Castle Camps. When they arrived at their destination and the disguised butler, hiding his face, had been assisted out of the carriage by the driver (an unfamiliar experience indeed), Madam Red touched his arm lightly, and leaned over in order to whisper, "Look over this way – this is the house."

He turned to where she indicated. Beyond a considerably sized front lawn (the grass a fresher green than any growing in London), and past a well-tended garden of tulips, zinnias and other flowers, sat a fine country home constructed of brown stone. It was by no means one of the great, upscale villas that could frequently be found in those better-known areas of the countryside, but it was obvious to any onlooker that the resident of this place was well-off nonetheless. If Grell hadn't been so distracted by his rapidly intensifying dread, he would have perceived that the house was about double the size of Madam Red's town home.

It was no exaggeration to say that by the time they had walked up the path and were standing at the house's entrance, an inferno had taken hold of his nerves. Noticing his paleness and the way he shifted the fan he held from hand to brown kid-gloved hand, Madam Red reached over and poked her "sister", causing him to twitch and yelp. "Grell, _calm down_," the true and experienced noblewoman hissed. "Just try to remember everything I've taught you, and if you aren't sure, you need only to follow my lead. And most importantly – _don't speak_."

And with these final admonishments, she extended her arm and rapped smartly on the door.

Grell hardly had time to yank down the edge of the maroon hat he wore over his anxious eyes before it opened. From what he was able to see, it was a servant who had answered the knock, a maid. Her countenance was hidden from view by his hat, but her voice revealed that she was quite young. "Good morning. Madams Phantomhive and Durless, is it?"

Madam Red did not hesitate to smoothly respond. "That is correct."

"Come in, please; I will show you to the parlor. Mrs. Harvey is expecting you. Will your driver need any assistance carrying in your bags?"

"I don't believe so; there are merely five cases between us," Madam Red replied, and advanced inside a few steps as the maid held open the door. Grell however had gone rigid, and, scarcely breathing, stood planted outside, staring at Madam Red's back as she moved away from him.

Realizing that her companion was not with her, the scarlet-clad woman turned, and it required everything in her power not to roll her eyes and sigh. With a voice laced with an odd gentleness, she called to him. "Rachel. Is everything all right?"

It took a moment for the name, and for what was occurring, to register. Jerking his head, he opened his mouth to reply, but at the last second clamped it shut, remembering the all-too-vital rule. Instead, he nodded weakly.

"Good," came her unusually amiable reply. "Come, then." As Grell slowly and unwillingly ambled into the house, he could hear her explaining to the maid, "Please do not mind my sister if she seems a bit out of sorts – she has been sick of late but insisted on coming."

With his limited vision, Grell followed them as carefully as possible down what seemed to be the front hall, and making a right turn, into a parlor. Seeing that the backs of the women remained turned, he peeked out from under the wide rim of the hat to survey the room. It was a relatively small space, containing rustic furniture and knickknack-filled shelves, with the focus consisting of a low round table adorned by a vase of freshly-cut blooms from the garden. Like in the madam's own home, the rugs and curtains were of a heavy material, but here in rich shades of green. It was a simple yet appealing room, possessing a sort of coziness which Grell had not felt anywhere else.

These observations abruptly ceased however, as the hat was suddenly whisked off his head. In panic, he threw both hands up in an attempt to grab at it, but was met only with empty air. _No-! Come back-!_

"Do not be startled, Rachel; our outdoor wear is only being taken and put away," Madam Red said calmly. "Is it not wonderful to come back to this house so full of dear memories?" Watching the maid proceed to help her out of her duster, Grell quickly slipped out of his own (a dark gray one he was borrowing) and pushed it awkwardly toward the servant before she could come too close to him. Once she had finally exited the room however, Madam Red abandoned the false tone and spoke to him as she always did, her casual look replaced by one of seriousness. "You're doing well so far, I suppose…but do try not to be so easily alarmed. How many times, after all, have you taken and hung up my hat and coat at home? Now quick, cover yourself; she will be here shortly."

Heeding her instructions, he unfolded the black silk fan and held it up to conceal all but his uneasy eyes, heart rate rivaling that of the speediest trains in England. It would only be moments now before they would know if this farce would have any chance of succeeding.She might be old and out of touch with reality somewhat, but how could the madam's grandmother possibly be fooled into believing that he, a clown trying to function outside of the circus tent, was her granddaughter?!

A long few minutes passed, and just when Grell was sure that his agitation would burst forth in the form of tears, their hostess made her entrance. Stopping before them, Mrs. Harvey looked first at Angelina, and then at "Rachel". "The both of you made it, I see," she greeted, her tone warm and genial. "Welcome back, it has been far too long!"

Through his disquietment, Grell regarded his "grandmother". Age had not been so cruel as to diminish her stature – she appeared to be about the same height as Madam Red, and their similar facial features betrayed their relation. The elderly woman's silver hair was pinned up at the crown of her head, and her navy blue dress was not of the current fashionable style, but of a less complicated type only seen outside of the great cities. Grell felt his body go stiff again when her brown-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Yes, it certainly has been, Grandmother!" Madam Red returned hastily, averting the other's attention and smiling. "We are both so glad to have come. It is good to see you well, as you stated in your letter." She embraced Mrs. Harvey, swiftly placing a kiss to her cheek while Grell watched in horror from behind the fan. "I know we will have an enjoyable stay."

"Yes, I am sure that leaving the city for a spell will do you both much good," Mrs. Harvey replied, moving toward Grell. In delight, she faced him, while he pleaded inwardly that she would not come any closer. "My word, Rachel, you have shot up like a tree! How is the family? You did not return my letter to you…"

He couldn't help it; as she moved in on him, he leaned back, eyes wide as saucers. No one had said anything about _this _sort of thing! Overcome by fear, he missed the harried look that came upon Madam Red as she swooped in beside them and laid a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Grandmother, I am afraid that Rachel is recovering from illness – a rather serious cold and sore throat, you see. As a consequence, she has temporarily lost her voice, and wishes also to keep her condition from spreading to anyone else. Please understand…despite not being entirely well, she was so very set on coming to see you." She cast a glance at Grell. "Isn't that so, Rachel?"

Much too rapidly, he nodded.

"What a pity," Mrs. Harvey said sympathetically, and to Grell's indescribable relief, backed away a step. "Perhaps the country air will be a help to you while you are here. I so wanted to hear about how you are getting on, however! And about that darling boy of yours! How I wish Vincent would consider bringing you all to live closer to Castle Camps; I've missed our conversations." Although unnoticed, Madam Red narrowed her eyes just slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down as all attention was directed to "Rachel". With a silent scoff of repugnance, she looked away at hearing the next words spoken to Grell. "Won't you at least grace me with that beautiful smile that I recall so well?"

_Smile?! Oh, unknowing woman, why must you ask the impossible?! _After a pause of uncertainty, he glanced at Madam Red, whose only response was a nod of affirmation. Mustering up the happiest expression he could given the circumstances, he lowered his shield and, after flashing the briefest of smiles, whipped it back up once more.

"Ah," sighed Mrs. Harvey, "you have not changed in the slightest, Rachel, and for that I am glad. Now," – and here she again addressed both of them – "let us all sit down and have tea. Angelina, since your sister cannot speak, would you be able to inform me of all that has been happening between the both of you?"

As they began moving toward the table and chairs, Grell's mind, overwhelmed to a whole new degree, finally caught up with him. Dropping the fan away again, he looked to Madam Red in open-mouthed amazement. The old woman really _did_ think he was Rachel – slim, blonde, glasses-less (and not to mention dead) Rachel! Rather than being seen straight through, he had only been met with acceptance…an acceptance by means of deceit. In return, the madam only shook her head at him and beckoned, urging him to come and sit.

Once they had taken their places and Mrs. Harvey had ordered tea to be prepared, the conversation between she and Madam Red commenced. Grell found himself quite content with the taciturn aspect of his role, as he would not have known how to respond to much of what was being discussed. They spoke first about the Phantomhives and how young, innocent Ciel was doing (these, of course, were all lies), and then went on to the topic of Madam Red's daily life and occupation. The tea was served not long into the talk, and Grell, although still uncomfortable with being here masquerading as he was, tried to remember Madam Red's instructions in taking afternoon tea. Sips and bites were to be small, and movements deliberate, he recalled. And in this way, despite the obvious shaking of his hand each time he raised the teacup, he was able to progress through the light meal.

But how he could not seem to quiet his nerves, or drive away the visions of disaster that kept assaulting his mind! How long would it be until the madam's grandmother came to her senses? And that maid – what suspicious looks she had given him! What if she would be the one to expose him as a fraud? What if –

" – Rachel!"

The start that this call caused him was a bad one indeed. Caught unawares, Grell, whose unhappy musings had led him to stare off into space, jumped wildly in his seat, and a hot, scalding sensation was promptly felt all over his right hand, seeping through the glove he wore. At the same time, splashing was heard, and when he looked, a brown stain was spreading fast over the white linen tablecloth.

Filled at once with sickened terror, he dropped the cup he had previously been holding, agonized cries of self-loathing already forming in his throat. All that escaped was a croak however, before a hand came crashing down over his mouth.

"Mmfph!"

Madam Red was near him suddenly, her face wrought with panic. "No Rachel, you mustn't strain your voice! Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you!" Although she professed concern, Grell could easily detect the underlying glare of warning.

As she slowly eased her hand away, Mrs. Harvey spoke up. "Heavens, Angelina…there was no need for you to give your sister such a scare." Turning to Grell, she went on kindly, "Now don't fret about the spill, dear…such an incident does not spell the end of the world. Why don't you go on and clean yourself up?"

His hand soaked with wasted Darjeeling, he found he did not have much of a choice. Madam Red, who was most likely trying to ignore the mild reprimand she had received, was the one to respond however. "Grandmother, please allow me to escort Rachel to the wash basin…it has been so long that I fear she has forgotten where it is."

Mrs. Harvey hesitated, but then consented, and called for the maid to tend to the sopping mess as Madam Red and Grell took their leave. The latter, having forgotten to snatch up his fan on the way out, instantly snapped his head in the opposite direction as said maid passed them in the hall, only to find himself in a collision with the madam's back. Turning, she threw him a black look, but continued to lead him toward the scullery.

No sooner had the door safely shut behind them than the eruption of scoldings began. "_What_ just happened, Grell?! No; I'll tell you what happened. The behavior I saw in there was beyond unladylike. For one, you were fidgeting quite a bit in your seat, and for another, your concentration fell away and you began staring about the room! Didn't I tell you that your attention must not wander? I should not have had to call out to you as I did! Do you know how that made me look?!"

Cowering, he could only cry out, "I am sorry, my lady! I know I have shamed you – if your grandmother thinks badly of you I am entirely to blame!"

"Shush! They will hear you if you make a racket. Now, over there." She pointed to the wash basin, and the melancholy butler stepped toward it, peeling off the drenched and dirtied glove and cooling his overheated hand. "I must go back now or she may become suspicious. Just leave the gloves here and we will get them later. And from here on, _mind yourself_!" So saying this, she marched, grumbling, from the room, leaving him disheartened and alone.

Several minutes later, once he had located a clean rag and used it to wipe off the water, he made his way, bare-handed, back to the parlor. Upon arriving, he saw that the tea-things had been cleared away and the sullied tablecloth removed, leaving only the vase of sweet-smelling flowers behind, but the two ladies were no longer there. Producing a low whine of anguish, Grell retrieved his discarded fan and re-entered the hallway, looking about uncertainly. He was already tired of this charade, tired of being all dolled up, especially with the embarrassing false bosom and the ridiculous bustle. _If I remain undiscovered to the end of this visit, nothing in this mad world will ever again astonish me! Oh, Madam, why must this ring mean so much to you – and when will we see it, anyway?_

At any rate, there was nothing to do now but search for his so-called relatives. After combing the whole of the first floor (how utterly restraining these skirts were!), he at last located them in the drawing room, appearing to be engaged in conversation. Noticing an available chair, Grell began making his way over – but in a hurried moment of forgetfulness quickened his pace, striding in the way he was used to doing in trousers, and the result was unavoidable. Lurching ungracefully, the butler-turned-lady sensed his balance abandon him…at least, until his frantically waving arms found the upright piano.

CLANG!

Everyone jumped, including himself – but at least he did not fall down. As the resounding and spontaneous chord died away, Grell was not at all surprised to find Madam Red glowering at him, while Mrs. Harvey held a hand over her heart.

"Goodness Rachel, I did not know you wished to play for us…but I am afraid the piano needs tuning, so it is not possible at this time. I am so sorry, dear. Come, sit down and join us. Angelina has just offered to help me with the quilt I have been working on." It was only then that he saw that each of them held a sizable patch of fabric in her lap, made up of multiple squares that varied in color and pattern. "Will you not help as well?"

Sirens abruptly sounded in his head. Sew? Him?! Without hesitation he looked at Madam Red. Surely she could invent some excuse!

But to his utmost shock and disbelief, she merely nodded at him and gestured to a nearby basket filled with scraps of cloth and sewing supplies. How could she be serious? This was most definitely _not_ in the contract! Or…was he to simply pretend to sew?

With extreme unwillingness, and with his mouth itching to cry out in protest, he retrieved a segment of the quilt from the basket. Conveniently, an already-threaded needle was stuck into a light blue square, and from the looks of it, someone had left off in the middle of attaching it to the yellow square adjacent. Grell sat down and carefully laid the fabric across his knees. Furtively, he glanced over to the busily sewing women to observe how they held their needles. _How can they do it so easily and so fast?_ he couldn't help but marvel, watching their deft movements and the needles flying in and out of the cloth. Looking back down, he clumsily took up his own needle.

"…and that is why I absolutely refuse to travel by locomotive," Mrs. Harvey was saying, as she concluded a tale about an acquaintance who had suffered from heart complications while riding from Shelford to London (never mind that he had been a frail person to begin with). "By the way, Anne, I have been meaning to ask you – why ever did you chop off that pretty hair of yours? No woman I have ever seen wears it at such an irrational length. Long and swept up is truly the becoming way to keep it – like your sister's, for example."

Had anyone looked closely enough, they would have caught the way Madam Red bristled in her seat at these blunt remarks, but in any case, her chance to reply to the criticism was abruptly stolen away. Across from where she and the older woman sat came a short, stifled cry. When her eyes darted to Grell, she found him with shoulders slightly hunched, biting his lip and staring with a pained expression at his hand.

Immediately guessing what had occurred, but masking her exasperation with a sweetly concerned tone, she gave voice to the impending question. "Rachel, whatever has happened?"

Raising his misery-filled gaze, Grell reluctantly displayed his left hand. Her thoughts were indeed correct: he had managed to prick his finger with the needle, and consequently draw a trickle of blood. Why, oh why had she not been able to predict something like this sooner?!

Mrs. Harvey gasped, but before she could react further, Madam Red quickly spoke up. "Grandmother, please allow me to tend to Rachel's wound…it would seem she is not well enough to focus her energies on handiwork right now."

"…of course, please do," the elderly gentlewoman agreed, and turning to Grell in oblivious compassion, added, "and Rachel, perhaps it would be best if you partake of a…different sort of activity, regaining your health as you are."

Back to the scullery the pretended sisters went, and once more Madam Red wasted no time in expressing her deep displeasure at her cringing accomplice's most recent conduct. One was _never _to touch the piano in another's home unless granted permission! And a lady _never_ had reason to hasten her steps, as he had! Once again, Grell begged for what seemed to him unobtainable forgiveness, only to be fiercely shushed a second time.

"I will admit, however," the madam said begrudgingly as she finished tying a thin strip of cloth around his injured fingertip, "that I am at fault for assuming you could merely hold a needle without sticking yourself…I didn't expect you to actually sew, you know. There; now let's go. You will probably have no choice but to simply sit and listen to us talk now."

This was precisely what Grell found himself doing for the next several hours, and he could safely say that those were the most boring hours of his life. Mrs. Harvey spoke more about her day-to-day existence in Castle Camps, and along with Madam Red recalled many events from their family's history, which he could only feign to remember with occasional nods of his head. When this awful period of sitting at last came to an end, it was well into evening, and time for supper. Although the meal to be consumed was not by any means an elaborate one, he knew that this did not change the rules of table etiquette, and while he tried ardently not to make a spectacle of himself, some mishaps were bound to and did take place. A hot potato that burned his mouth, the glass of cordial which nearly took a tumble, the knife that briefly shrieked against the plate as he attempted to properly cut his portion of Cornish hen. But each time, the odd look which he kept fearing to receive from Mrs. Harvey never came; instead she would only shake her head and smile in pity, commenting that a good night's rest would certainly aid his recovery and leave him in a better state tomorrow.

At long last, the time for slumber arrived, and Grell could not have been any more eager. To be out of the confines of these tight torture devices, even for only a night, would undoubtedly be like time spent in Paradise. Once they had bid goodnight to Mrs. Harvey, he and Madam Red made their way up to the guest bedrooms, where their luggage was found waiting outside of the doors. Having divided and taken hold of their individual cases, the two of them straightened, and looked at each other.

"Good night, Grell," spoke Madam Red, voice hushed, and added, "Just think – half of the visit is over now, and you have seen for yourself just how unsuspecting of you she is. Tomorrow we will have what we need and it will all be over. I will stop in in the morning, to arrange your hair and make sure you are presentable."

"Yes, my lady," he whispered. "Thank you, and please sleep well."

They parted ways, and no sooner had Grell closed and locked the door of his room and lit the oil lamp than he hurriedly reached behind him and undid the sash around his waist, releasing his aching middle from its merciless hold. The stuffing of the bust was next to go, as he unbuttoned the bodice as fast as possible and pulled out the rolled-up socks, hurling them away as though they stung him. The skirt took more work somewhat, what with disconnecting it from the bodice and then fumbling with the bustle, but eventually he was free, and, having dressed himself in his familiar nightshirt, felt the unparalleled bliss at being himself again. Looking around, he couldn't deny that the room he was to use here seemed much more comfortable and appealing to the senses than his own drab and dingy one back in London, but it didn't matter, for he still wished with all his being that he was home. As he slid under the blankets within the strange country darkness, the promised reward – the two days off – momentarily crossed his mind, and he realized with a heavy sort of dullness that he didn't care anymore.

And not far away, as she thought of her dedicated servant, her faultless sister, and of the grandmother in whose eyes she had always been second best, Angelina wondered whether everything had been a mistake.

/

**I usually don't write OCs…but I hope I will do a decent job writing Mrs. Harvey.**

**Now for some more historical notes:**

**I found out while I was researching Victorian fashion that wide-brimmed hats, like Madam Red's in the series, didn't come into style until the 1890s, while I'm pretty sure Black Butler takes place (or starts in) 1888? I guess Yana got that detail wrong, but it worked out for me since it was a convenient way for Grell to hide his face.**

***A bustle is a type of framework that was worn under the back of the skirt to make it look fuller or to keep all the heavy drapery from dragging on the ground. They changed in size and shape during the period when they were popular, and are the reason why women from those years appear to have unnaturally-sized rear ends. I like to think that the one Grell is using doesn't make him look **_**too**_** ridiculous.**

**I feel so bad for him, I really do. XD**

**Chapter 3 will be next. Until then, please drop a review!**


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